BubbleStream

David Rory ONeill

The Prairie Companions

Synopsis

A stunning evocation of a unique time and place—and a powerfully moving story of courage, commitment, love, loss, and endurance—this unforgettable saga follows two extraordinary young women from their boarding school in Victorian England to the North American wilderness.

Author Biography

Born and raised in Belfast until troubles and tribal violence drove him away, David grew to be a non-conformist unsettled world-wanderer. He found peace and his true calling as a storyteller in the Irish tradition and now lives in a vast art- and book-filled house on the side of the Galtee Mountains in Ireland. Beloved Brigitte and a cat with issues, called Bobby, share his life here. David Rory O’Neill has written twelve novels and more are bubbling and brewing.

Author Insight

A review as insight.

The story of Pat and Clara navigates across time and geography, from their girlhoods in Victorian England, to the great Canadian prairie that calls them to break ground on foreign soil. Defying convention, Pat’s ingenuity and pioneering spirit is in evidence long before she and Clara leave their families and rigid cultural restrictions behind.
Together, hand-in-hand, these two very different personalities fearlessly overcome each obstacle that threatens to block their determination to forge a new life. Mutual dependence gives way to inclusiveness, as indigenous locals become part of their ever-expanding, chosen extended family. Embracing tribal rituals, Pat and Clara learn entirely new ways of seeing themselves and connecting with the natural world that surrounds them.
David Rory O’Neill’s compelling characters and finely researched back-story demonstrate how the industrial revolution altered agriculture, how intimacy grows over time, and how the bonds of love allow us to survive the blows that inevitably fall into each life, no matter how well-lived.

Book Excerpt

The Prairie Companions

“Buller
dear, please forgive my outburst. It was rude and uncalled for. I really don’t
know what’s come over me recently. I seem to be in the grip of a dreadful funk
of late. Please do tee off.”

Buller
was looking pale and a little shaky. He had just had a fiery face full of his
little sister at her most scary and intimidating. Pat was little in stature
only. She was two years younger than his own fifteen years, and almost two feet
shorter. He had always been in awe of her. He wished fervently he had her
self-possession and confidence. He took a deep breath and said, “No Pat, you
were correct, it is you to tee off first.”

Buller
stepped back and watched as Pat made her little sand pile and placed her ball.
He noted how she carefully adjusted the tight bun of coiled fair hair on the
back of her head, checking it was central so it would not upset her balance. He
noted the way she had rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt so her forearms
were bare and showed the sinewy strength so unlike any other girl he’d ever
seen. Not that he’d seen many, only his other sisters, Winny and little Mary.
Pat’s fierce concentration and determination to do everything she ever
attempted as perfectly as she could, was one of the things Buller both admired
and was intimidated by. Pat looked up the fairway, jutted her chin in her
typical manner, then grinned over at him. The smile was genuine, radiant and
full of love and warmth, so he could do nothing but grin back and laugh at his
own trepidation. Patricia may have been fierce and quick to anger but she was
also happy, high spirited and full of mischievous humour.

It is little wonder so many of my
friends want me to introduce them or curry favour for them. They all love Pat’s
company. She is in many ways quite ageless; she does not seem girlish and silly
like others her age. She seems to have changed so suddenly. Her crowd have been
left behind. That gang of boys she used to play with are scarcely ever seen
now. Childish games on the beach to a three handicap at the golf in only a few
months. Drat! I do wish she’d not been so ridiculously good at it. I feel like
a flailing fool now.

The
wood sang in the air and the music of the strike told of a perfect hit. The
ball soared straight and further than Buller could ever hope to manage without
hooking into the rough.

After
the game, Buller went into the clubhouse and left Pat fuming about the
unfairness of the men only rule. She set off for home, walking at her normal
long striding pace that always drew comment from her mother: “Patricia dear,
that is a most graceless gait. Do slow down.” Pat’s response was always to
thrust out her chin and lengthen her stride further.

As
she came into Christchurch’s main street she heard her name called and saw two
girls she knew from school. They were peering at the dresses in Goddard’s
Drapery store. Her father’s shop.

“Goddard,
can you get us a discount on bonnets?”

Pat
stopped before the two and said, “I could but I won’t. I saw you two teasing one
of the borders last week. You are a cruel and nasty pair and I’ll not give you the
time of day.”

One
grinned and said to the other in a stage whisper: “What can one expect? Her
father is only a shopkeeper after all, no breeding.”

Pat
stepped closer to the speaker and thrust her face close, as the taller girl
shied away. Pat spoke softly: “Oh I see, so the girl you teased was fair game
because she’s too well-bred, too aristocratic and I’m too common. Tell me, what
is acceptable? Stupid foolish prattling ninnies like you are the judges, are
you?”

“You
do that and don’t forget to include the ‘foolish prattling’ part. Be gone
before I show you what real coarseness is and knock your empty head off your
skinny shoulders. And leave Clara Fitz-Gibbon alone from now on or you’ll have
me to answer to.”

Pat’s
face was inches from the older girls as she spoke and she could see the fear
and shock there. They didn’t speak again and scuttled off arm in arm.

What is happening to me? Everything
seems to bother me and I’m forever snarling at people and getting stroppy. That
Clara girl seems nice enough but I’ve never even talked to her and here’s me
threatening those twits. I wanted to biff that silly girl. I seem to want to
biff everybody. What ever has come over me? I feel happy enough but only when
I’m on my own. Everybody miffs me. Even Mary and Winny and especially Buller. I
think I need a friend. Yes, Clara shall be my new friend. I should have a
sensible pal. I do hope she’s not wet like those drips. Yes, I shall speak to
her first thing Monday morning. Why do boys get so silly as they get older? All
my pals are a pain now.

At
six forty-five on Monday morning Pat ran up the stairs in the large Victorian
mansion that was Miss Sweetapple’s Academy for Young Ladies. On the top floor
there were three dormitories housing the boarding girls. Pat stormed two and caused much flapping
and complaint before she found the room containing Clara Fitz-Gibbon. Clara was
sitting at a dressing-table mirror carefully brushing her long ash blond hair
with counted strokes. She heard the commotion as Pat came in and said, “Oh do
give over you silly ninnies,” as a few of the five girls Clara shared with
objected to Pat’s invasion of their privacy.

Clara
swivelled in her seat and peered at Pat through the veil of hair hanging across
her lowered head. Pat walked to her and stopped uncomfortable close. “Do lift
your head, Clara. You are so pretty, ’tis a shame to walk around stooped and
hiding as you do. I’m Patricia Flora Goddard and I’ve
decided we shall be friends now. Best friends. When do you take breakfast? I
shall join you for a cup of tea and we shall begin.”